The Princely Wizard
by rachigurl5
Summary: Hermione wants Ron to read her favorite Book. But is William Goldman's "The Princess Bride" really Ron's type of book? Features EngrossedInABook!Ron and Buttercup!Hermione.
1. Chapter One

The Princely Wizard: A Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure…or Something

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I do not own Harry Potter or anything regarding Harry Potter, although I do have Ron Weasley tied up in my basement.  Muahaha.  Ahem.  No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended

This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by William Goldman, from his novel The Princess Bride.  I do not own Westley, Buttercup, Prince Humperdink, or the albino.  No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  Some passages, lines, and references in this story are taken verbatim from The Princess Bride.  So, if you find something very entertaining and outstandingly hilarious, chances are it belongs to Goldman.  Read the book.  It's a good one.  On to the story.  *poof*

~*~

Ron Weasley was lying on a pouf in the Common Room on a lazy Saturday afternoon when she came in, holding a book (as always), and looking mighty proud of herself.  
  
He pretended to sleep, as he knew that nothing good could come of Hermione looking smug with a big old book in her hands. _Probably taught herself how to fly without a broom, or something_, Ron thought. _That'd be just like Hermione._ He felt a sort of pride bubble up, but he squished it just as quickly as he squeezed his eyes in a very unconvincing imitation of sleep.  
  
Hermione stood over him, holding the book and grinning madly. He opened his eyes just a bit and sighed inwardly. "What?"  
  
"I want to show you something," she said, still smiling. _She's up to something. _  
  
She dropped a huge book onto the table in front of the pouf.  
  
"What's this?" he asked, yawning.   
  
"Ron, don't be dense. It's a _book_." Hermione Granger pushed her bushy brown bangs out of her eyes to properly glare at him.  
  
"Yes, I see that it's a book, Hermione. No wonder you're first in our year..." Hermione gave him a look and he silently congratulated himself--he'd successfully ruffled her feathers. _Ron: one, Hermione: zero_. "What book is it?"  
  
"It's a fantastic one." _But then, you liked _Hogwarts, a History_,_ he thought, but felt it best to keep it to himself. He didn't want to chase her off. "It's called _The Princess Bride_, and it's one of my favorite books."  
  
Ron made a face. "Princess Bride? Sounds girly." He looked at the book cover. _The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure._ "Bit full of himself, he was, eh?"  
  
Hermione sighed and chose to ignore his latter statement. "It's not _girly_. It's a beautiful story about...about...well, _everything_!" she said, breathless. "I want you to read it."  
  
Ron paused. "Why?"  
  
Hermione looked down and fingered the edges of the well-worn hardback book. "Because...I like it. And I wanted to share it with—" Ron's stomach felt a bit fluttery. _With...me? Someone special?_ "Someone who might like it, too." She looked back up at him, her face a bit pink. "Besides, with Harry at Quidditch practices all weekend, you could do well with something that'll keep you from being a lazy git who doesn't read."  
  
Ron yawned again, feigning aloofness. "But being a lazy git is _fun_, Hermione. Besides, I read."   
  
Hermione crossed her arms and Ron almost laughed--she looked so much like McGonagall, he almost expected her to take points from Gryffindor for his cheek. "When was the last time you read _anything_ that wasn't _A_, a schoolbook, _B_, something Quidditch related, or _C_, one of those wretched comics you're always reading?" she asked, ticking the things off on her fingers.   
  
  
Ron looked at her lazily. "I'll have you know that _Martin Miggs: Mad Muggle _ is considered very heavy reading material in some literary circles," he said with a grin.  
  
Hermione looked as she always did when speaking to Ron; caught between being amused and annoyed. "Ron, be serious. I really think you'll like it." She bit her lower lip, revealing her front teeth, which were still startlingly small to Ron, when he thought about it. He sighed.  
  
"Okay, what's it about then?" he asked, defeated. Hermione made an excited sound and plopped herself down next to Ron. Their elbows grazed for just an instant, but it was enough to make Ron very glad he'd agreed to take a closer look at this book.  
  
He was busy thinking about how strangely springy the curls in Hermione's hair were looking that particular day when he realized that she was looking at him expectantly.  
  
"Erm, what was that?" He blushed.  
  
"I was telling you about the book, Ron. _Honestly_, you never listen to me." She looked about ready to stand and leave. Ron quickly tried to stop her by putting his hand on her leg. He looked at her seriously.  
  
"Don't go yet," he said. For a moment, they just stared at one another...before Ron realized that his hand was resting quite comfortably on Hermione's upper thigh. He turned red and snatched it back as if Hermione's leg was covered with hot coals.  
  
He cleared his throat and stared at the book to avoid her eyes. "So, go on about this Bridal Princess business."  
  
Hermione cocked her head to the side and looked at him curiously for a moment, her face pink, before speaking.  
  
"Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautiful ladies. Snakes. Spiders. Beasts of all natures and descriptions. Pain. Death. Brave men. Coward men. Strong men. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles."  
  
Ron looked at her. "Sounds like our lives."  
  
She nodded. "Don't I know it." She paused. "We have true love in our lives?"  
  
Ron shrugged, still avoiding her stare. "I suppose we might sometime." He cleared his throat again. It was feeling a bit parched. "I mean, who knows, maybe Hagrid and Madame Maxime are hitting it off on their journey." He took a quick glance at her and grinned. "I'll take a look at it, OK?"  
  
"Really? You will?" He nodded, and Hermione gave him a quick hug, which he pretended not to enjoy at all, and she pranced back up to her dormitory, leaving Ron with a slight smile on his face and a big book in his hands.  
  



	2. Chapter Two

_Chapter One: The Bride  
  
The year that Buttercup _(Oi, her name is _Buttercup?_ Lord.) _was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette. Annette worked in Paris for the Duke and Duchess de Guiche, and it didn't not escape the Duke's notice that someone as extraordinary was polishing the pewter. The Duke's notice did not escape the notice of the Duchess either, who was not very beautiful and not very rich, but plenty smart. The Duchess set about studying Annette and shortly found her adversary's tragic flaw.  
  
Chocolate._  
  
Ron snickered. It was roughly an hour since Hermione had almost literally dropped _The Princess Bride_ into his lap, and, after a light nap which revolved a great deal around a princess with bushy brown hair playing Quidditch with Harry, he decided to take a closer look at it.  
  
Hermione, who'd apparently come back down to the Common Room after he'd fallen asleep, was reading her Arithmancy book on the couch across from him and her head snapped up when he'd laughed.  
  
"What's funny?" she asked, a small, triumphant smile playing at her lips. He scowled.  
  
"Nothing."

  
"You _like_ the book, don't you? I _knew_ you would!" she said, still grinning that insufferable I-told-you-so grin.  
  
"I'm on the first page! First paragraph! I s'pose it's all right, but Lord, Hermione, give the words a chance to digest! And her name is _Buttercup_? What kind of name is that?"   
  
Ignoring him and looking smug, she looked back down at her book. "Just keep reading. It gets good very soon."   
  
"I will," he said through clenched teeth. She could be so aggravating at times.   
  
He kept reading. For hours, his house mates wondered what could be so interesting that it kept Ron Weasley enthralled for hours on the Gryffindor Common Room sofa. "Bet it's a just a book with one of those Muggle nudie magazines hidden in it," Seamus giggled to Dean and Harry, who was personally astounded at his friend's interest in anything that didn't involve a broom and Snitch. But Ron ignored them and continued to read into dinner, and took the book to the Great Hall. Harry was a bit concerned.  
  
"Hermione..." he whispered, sitting across the table from Hermione and Ron, who was eating his dinner with one hand and had the book in the other."Is he all right?" He mouthed the words so Ron couldn't see although Harry knew he wasn't paying attention anyway.   
  
"Of course he's all right. He's _reading_." she said, taking a heaping bite of mashed potatoes and looking awfully proud of herself.  
  
"I _know_ he's reading...but _what's_ he reading?"  
  
"A book I lent him." She grinned widely at Ron, who couldn't be bothered to look up.  
  
"Is it--I mean, did you..." Harry stumbled over the words. "Is it one of those enchanted books? The kind you can't put down, I mean." He looked at her a bit sternly as he rushed the words out as quickly as he could.  
  
"Is it _what_?" She laughed. "Oh _no_, Harry, of course not! It's just a regular Muggle book that I lent him because I thought he might enjoy it." Harry looked relieved.  
  
"Good. I thought you might have been playing a joke or something..." He nodded his head toward Ron. "Well, looks like he likes it."  
  
"Sod off, Harry," Ron said with a quick grin as he took a gulp of pumpkin juice. "I'm just reading it so Hermione will stay off my back about it..." He trailed off with a chuckle as he began reading again. Harry and Hermione both rolled their eyes.

~*~

  
"_Lumos_," Ron muttered. It was late, and the boy's dormitory was quiet except for the soft snoring drifting from Neville's bed. Ron was curled up beneath the covers of his four-poster, reading by wand light. Inigo was just about to confront Count Rugen, but he didn't know that the Count had a dagger. Ron's breathing was slightly haggard. He was worried.  
  
_It took Inigo until 5:41 before he actually cornered the Count. In a billiard room. "Hello," he was about to say. "My name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die." What he actually got out was somewhat less: "Hello, my name is Ini--"  
  
And then the dagger rearranged his insides. The force of the throw sent him staggering backward into the wall. The rush of blood weakened him so quickly he could not keep to his feet. "Domingo, Domingo," he whispered, and then he was, at forty-two minutes after five, lost on his knees..._  
  
Ron plunged ahead. He had hope that Inigo would be all right--he figured it couldn't be any worse than what had happened to Westley.   
  
_That_ had thrown him for a loop. Actually, it had sent him into a Wronski Feint of emotions that he hadn't thought possible of a book. Although he'd _never_ admit it to _anyone_, a couple tears had almost managed to squeeze from the corners of his burning eyes, but he had overcome them and read on. 

  
Would Inigo exact revenge on the Count and avenge his father's death? Would Westley be all right after his few hours in a "nearly dead" condition? Would Miracle Max's miracle pill last long enough for Westley and Buttercup to have a "happily ever after"? Where was Fezzik? Would Prince Humperdinck get his just desserts? Ron had to know.  
  
And he found out. With a triumphant smile at reading the last line of the last page, he promptly fell sound asleep in the book, the last page reading "THE END" sticking to his freckly and exhausted face.


	3. Chapter Three

Ron woke up to find himself in a pile of hay.  This was rather unusual, as he was fairly sure that the Gryffindor boy's dormitory hadn't been furnished with straw the last time he'd checked.  Wiping the bit of drool from his face, he sat up and stretched.

"Hey!  I don't drool.  What's this about?"  Ron, unsettled, looked around as the disembodied voice answered.

Hush, dear.  Ignore me.  And you _do drool._

"Who are you?  And how do you know what I'm thinking?"

I'm the narrator doing the voiceover for your dream.  

"Dream?  Narrator?"  _I suppose that would explain the hay, then.  "Well quit it; it's rather irritating."_

Sorry, hun.  No can do.  Just go about your business and try to ignore me.

Ron grumbled.  "Just narrate me fairly, okay?  No more of that drool stuff."

I just call 'em like I see 'em, dear.  Carry on.

With a last annoyed glance at the ceiling, Ron stretched and looked around.  He was sitting on a bit of hay and cloth that, he supposed, was a makeshift bed.  The small hovel was as clean as a hut with a dirt floor could be—a single wooden chair sat in the corner, with a table and candle sitting close by.  A single, cracked mirror served as the only luxury besides the dark wooden bookshelves that stood in the opposite corner, filled to capacity with some lovely old books that would've put Hermione into a frenzy.  He walked over to read a few of the titles:  _Fencing, Fighting, and Other Handy Talents, by Terrance Strongarm, __Learning Languages: A Comprehensive Guide to All Major Languages of the World, by Gabby Hablámucha,__ Bettering Yourself, by Amelia Goodly,__ So, You're An Orphan Farm Boy Forced into Bondage, a Collected Work by the Farm Boys and Girls' Union of Nebraska, and __How to Be A Swashbuckling Hero, by Herc Ulysses.  _

"Hmm.  I'm sensing a pattern here…" Ron muttered to himself.  Before getting the opportunity to continue his brilliant train of thought ("Hey!  That sounded like _sarcasm, there, narrator lady!"), he heard a female voice calling from outside.  "Farm boy!  Farm boy?  Are you awake?  Farm boy!"_

Ron leapt from his bed to investigate this achingly familiar voice.  He passed by the mirror and…_damn.  I look…good!  _

And he did.  His arms, which had been rather scrawny ("SCRAWNY?!") as a first year and only slightly less so as a fourth year, were strong and well-muscled.  The same could be said for his chest and stomach—both were far better defined than Ron had ever thought possible.  His hair was still flaming red, but the very top was slightly lighter, a sort of yellowy-orange that was turned by long hours of sunlight.  His usually ruddy skin tone was covered in sun-spawned freckles, so much so that for an instant, he almost thought he was looking at a reflection of his brother Charlie, the dragon man himself.  Ron, while a moderately attractive boy at Hogwarts ("What's this about "_moderately_ attractive"?!), ventured into the realm of "very handsome" in the hovel's mirror. 

"Go on, then," Ron said, grinning.  "Do feel free to continue describing how good I look."

Oh, _do_ behave.  You're interrupting the flow of the dream.  

"What?  You can talk about my drool, but not my drool-worthy eyes, eh?  I see…"

I'll get to it.  Now hush.

"'Moderately attractive', my arse…" he muttered, walking out of the hut.__

What he saw outside the hovel nearly floored him.  

Hermione.  

But it wasn't Hermione.  She looked…different.  She was…

Beautiful.

Skin of wintry cream was dotted with just a few freckles around her nose and rosy cheeks.  Her chocolate hair fell down her back in a mass of messy, wild curls.   Her eyes, big, warm and brown, were opened wide in annoyance.  _Some things never change_, Ron thought with a sigh.  She stood up straight and proud, not at all like at school with a pack of books on her back, and grace seemed to fall from her every movement. 

"Farm boy, _do_ hurry up.  The Count and Countess have come, and for some reason far beyond me, the Countess wants you to show her how you milk the cows.  Apparently, our milk has been talked about across the countryside or something.  But hurry yourself, we don't want to keep them waiting."  She tapped her foot on the ground, staring him down.

"H-Hermione?"  Ron could hardly articulate his words.  He'd always thought that Hermione was pretty, sure.  But this was something entirely different.  She was different.  _She's the most beautiful woman in the world_, he thought dizzily.

Technically, he wasn't at all right.  She barely cleared the top twenty and that was primarily based on potential.  She took no care of herself at all—she rarely bathed and hated to comb her hair.  In fact, the only things that gave her any joy at all were riding her horse and taunting the Farm boy.

"Is that right then?" Ron wondered aloud.  "All right, I understand now.  I'm in the book.  And I'm the hero."  He looked quite pleased with himself.  The woman blinked. 

"My name isn't Hermione and you know it, Farm boy.  I'm Buttercup, and who on earth are you speaking to?"  She stared at him, looking concerned.

"Didn't you hear that?  The disembodied voice narrating everything we do?  And you _really_ expect me to call you Buttercup?"  He giggled a bit, thinking about how horrified the actual Hermione would react to such a pet name.

She just stared at him.  Ron sighed.

"As you wish."  Ron thought he saw a quick flush in her cheeks, but she quickly turned on her heel and led him to the stables.  

Waiting there, in the muck and manure, were two couples—Ron recognized the first couple right away.  They were Hermione's parents, looking quite uneasy, dressed in worn peasants' clothing.  He couldn't blame their discomfort—the other couple was quite stunning, indeed, and Ron recognized them quickly, as well.

The Count was a tall, thin man with a head of silvery blond hair and a pale, pointed face.  He was dressed elegantly in a black cape and gloves and could clearly not tear his eyes away from Buttercup.  The woman, however, was nowhere near as quietly elegant as her husband.  The Countess' lips were painted a perfect red; her clear gray eyes lined in black.  She was quite beautiful, save for the arrogant upturning of her pointed nose.  All the colors in the world were muted in her gown.  Ron wanted to shield his eyes from its brilliance.  

_Damn, he thought.  __The Malfoys had infiltrated his subconscious.  Bugger._

"And is this the Farm boy, dear?"  The Countess moved closer to Ron.  

Buttercup nodded.  "He takes care of the cows."  

"Have you a name, farm boy?"

"Ro—er, Westley, Countess."

"Well, Westley, please do show us how you make this family's cows the finest in all of Florin.  We are all just _aching to find out."  The Countess licked her painted lips with a very pink and pointy tongue.  The look of hungry animal flashed in her eyes, making Ron feel quite uncomfortable._

He fed the cows for them.  Everyone was pleased.  Ron couldn't help but notice the Count watching Buttercup, and his stomach flopped.  The only thing that kept him from leaping at the Count was noticing that Buttercup was watching the Countess who was, in turn, watching Ron himself.

"Strange things are happening," Buttercup's parents said.

_Indeed, Ron thought.  __Indeed._

~*~

It was early in the morning.  Dusty sunlight poured through the cracked pane of glass in the hovel's tiny window.  He hadn't slept much and his back ached from the stiff hay bed.

"If I'm having a dream about the book I just finished…then why don't I know what's going to happen next?"  He paced across the floor of the shack.  "Well?  Enough talking about my pacing, what's happening here?"

Are you speaking to me again?  Oy, I _know this whole "narrator" business is new to you, but you've got to stop talking to me.  It's very annoying._

"Well, answer me and I'll stop."

You're not just sleeping.  You're not just dreaming.  It's a sort of enchanted sleep.  You don't remember the plot because you are to live it.

"An enchantment?  Cast by who?"  Ron was alarmed—he hadn't really thought anything of his unusual dream.  He'd just chalked it up to the potatoes from dinner lying on his stomach.

I can't really say.  I'm not quite sure.  Just live the story, get through it, and you'll be fine.

"And what if I'm not?  I don't remember _exactly what happened in the book, but I'm thinking that if I have a book here called __How to Be a Swashbuckling Hero here, it's not going to be your basic "naked at school with no homework" dream.  What if I die here?  Do I die in real life, too?"_

Well, that's a bit…sketchy.  

"_Sketchy?!  I'm asking you pertinent questions about my life and death and the best you can give me is __sketchy?!"  Livid, Ron stormed around the room, wondering what on earth he was going to do._

Just get through it, okay?  And don't talk to me.  Ignore me.  And cover your ears when I'm talking about things you're not around for—it'll spoil the fun.

"Fun?!  What the…" A knock at the door interrupted his bout of swearing.  He opened the door.  There stood Buttercup, her eyes slightly puffy, but looking as lovely as ever.

"I love you," she said.  "I know this must come as something of a surprise, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and all that, but I've loved you for several hours now, and it doesn't seem to be going away, I fear.  I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be a comparison.  There is no room in my body for anything but you.  I won't follow you for the rest of your days, or be your obedient slave for the rest of _my days, but you must know that my arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection for you.  I want to be your companion, your friend, your lover, your equal, and your wife for the rest of this eternity.  And the next one, too, if I can manage it.  I know I could never compete with the Countess in skills or wisdom…well, maybe wisdom, but I saw the way she looked at you and want you to know that I'll look at you that way forever, if you'll let me.  And I saw the way you looked at her, with your eyes, your beautiful eyes.  They are like the sea before a storm, all swirling blues and grays…but I digress—I'm a bit nervous, you see, I had this all written down, but by the time I'd had it all written down, I loved you several times more than I had when I originally wrote it, so now I'm a bit mixed up, you see?  But remember, sweet Westley, that she's quite old, and married, for goodness sake, and I'm only seventeen and have an entire life in front of me to share with you.  Please say I have a chance, please?"  She looked deep into his eyes to await an answer.  _

"Can you, uh…hang on a second?"  He gently shut the door.  All this was happening far too fast.  He was under a spell, which had most likely been cast by You-Know-Who, who was probably intending to get to Harry through him. Ron had had no clue what was going to happen next in this screwy alternate reality dream thing, and now he had someone who looked just like Hermione proclaiming her undying love for him.  It was simply far too much to cope with.

As soon as Ron had gathered his thoughts enough to speak to her, Buttercup was gone from his doorstep.

~*~

Ron was busy all the next day.  Chopping wood, minding the cows, gathering the crops…but the entire time, his mind was with Hermione.  His dream was nice enough, he supposed, but he wished deeply that the words that Buttercup had said the previous night were Hermione's own.  He knew that he probably should be thinking of more important matters, but he couldn't help it—his head was wrapped up with images of Hermione.  He decided that, while he was sleeping, at least, he could have the next best thing.

He found himself rapping on Buttercup's bedroom window late that night.

A lazy voice yawned from within.  "Who is it?"

"Ro—er, Westley."  

The door opened just a bit too quickly for Buttercup to be as nonchalant as she looked.  "Westley—?  Oh, _Farm Boy, it's you.  How nice of you to stop by."  Her eyes looked puffy, as if she'd been crying.  He felt this wild desire to hug her._

"I hope you're not sore about that joke I played on you this morning," she continued in her fanciest tone.  "I've just been feeling so low since I spoke to you last—I do so hope that my little jest wasn't too convincing?"  

Ron stared at her.  She was a horrible actress.  

"I've come to say goodbye," he said.

She simply stared at him.  

"I'm going to America.  To, uh, seek my fortune."  _For us._

Her lip trembled.  "Because of what I said this morning?"

Ron nodded.

She looked as if all the life beneath her china-doll perfect skin was collapsing, leaving her as beautifully vacant as an empty vase.  She blinked back tears and balled up her fists.

"Well, if you even think for a _moment that I'll take you back after you're done gallivanting with the Countess, you've another thing coming.  And you're an idiot if you think that she'll be happy in some hut you'll set up in America.  I mean, I can't imagine all her __dresses fitting in a hovel like yours out back, you'll just have to—"_

"Will you _stop talking about the sodding __Countess already!  You're driving me absolutely barking mad!"  _

She stopped talking and looked at him.  

"I've been trying to tell you, but you won't let me get a word in.  Lord, you really _are exactly like her, aren't you?  Don't you understand _anything_?"_

Buttercup blinked.  

"Well, not _exactly_ like her.  _She'd_ have bloody well figured it out by now."

She glared at him slightly, but the corners of her perfect mouth curved upwards just a bit as she put the pieces together.  "You love me, then.  Is that what all this is about?"

"My God—if your love was a grain of sand, mine would be…er, something a lot bigger and sandier than that!"  _Smooth, Weasley, smooth…_he chided himself.

She laughed at him.  "Wonderful imagery.  The mind spins at your dizzying intellect."

"Will you stop arguing with me just a moment to spin your mind around this? Why else do you think I've spent my life living in that shack out there?  Not because I have a special _fondness_ for your father's _cows_, I can assure you.  I've taught myself languages, made my body strong, and have stayed all these years in my hovel—_because of you._"  He took a well-needed breath.  His ears felt hot as he avoided her eyes.  "Now, do you want me to go on or shall I stop?"

"Never stop."

He felt dizzy.  "There hasn't been a—"

"Westley, if you're teasing me, I'm positively going to _kill_ you, you know that, right?"

Ron stepped forward, close to her and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, put his hands on her waist.  She let out a surprised gasp, for never in her life had the Farm Boy touched her.  Her heart nearly stopped, and yet she could feel it's beat thump through every bit of her body.  

He reveled in touching her.  He knew it was a dream, an illusion, and when he woke up, Hermione would be unaware of all that happened in his lovesick dreamscape…but he ached for it, felt it echo in his lonely heart.  Summoning courage he knew he'd never have with Hermione—if this were _real—_he kissed her.  

Buttercup wasn't as ready for the kiss as he was and he missed just slightly.  His lips caught her right in the corner of her open mouth, so he ended up with more cheek than lips.  _Figures, _he thought wildly as he scrunched his eyes together so as to avoid what must be a pretty confused stare from Buttercup.  

Ron's hands fumbled at her waist, not quite sure what to do with them.  He sought the whole of her lips, and when he did—

_Wow._

~*~__

There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C.  The precise calculation of rating kisses, is, as you may imagine, a terribly difficult thing, often leading to a quagmire of most trying controversy.  Although everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, no one has ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each of these variables should receive.  Yet, on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserve full marks.

This one left them all behind. 


	4. Chapter Four

Silence surrounded the lovers.  They were in a cave, a place of wonder, of distances traveled and obstacles overcome.  His fingers were lost in her hair…it was so soft and it had been so long since he'd seen her, been able to touch her.  He sat his chin on the top of her head and tickled her sides, and she jabbed him softly in his stomach—she needed no reminder of her height.  She laughed—oh, how he loved to hear her laugh—like gusts of wind through wind chimes.  His arms surrounded her in a bear hug, and he could feel her heart beat against his chest.  He pulled back from her a moment, nudged her chin up and was surprised to see her brown eyes glisten with a teary sheen.  A single tear fell down her cheek as she smiled ruefully, obviously disappointed in herself that she'd let it slip.  He brushed it away with his calloused knuckle.  He look down at her and bent to kiss her…

*           *           *

Ron awoke to the smell of smoke.  Panic shook him from the shrouded place where he was alone with Herm—Buttercup and happy, and his heart constricted.  He jumped from his hammock on the lower level of the _Queen's Pride_, the vessel en route to America and his new future.  

Buttercup had seen him off nearly a month ago, and what a long month it had been.  They were able to write, for the _Queen's Pride_ often stopped in towns long enough for him to tell her where he would be next.  Her letters, tidily written with loops in all the right places and every "t" and "i" perfectly placed, told him of the provincial happenings back home with "I love you" written in a million ways that made him blush.  Ron spent his days mopping the deck and learning all he could from the crusty sailors—everything from making an effective sleeping draught to knitting.  He earned some money that he was putting away for their arrival in America by challenging overconfident (and most often drunk) sailors to a game of chess that was always quickly won.  Life aboard the _Queen's Pride_ was simple, and he missed Buttercup very much.

He quickly banished all thoughts of Buttercup as his stomach dropped—he could smell charring wood.  The deck!  Ron leapt from his hammock and dashed up the steps.  He knew at once what was happening—at their last stop, the crew had heard whisperings that the Dread Pirate Roberts, the feared and ruthless pirate who never left any survivors, had been haunting the Carolina seacoasts.  The captain, a brave but foolish man, had thought their course to be far enough away from the troublesome area and continued as planned—they'd die because of it, naturally.

He had to get to the deck—the captain and the rest of the crew would already be rallied there with guns and swords ready.  "O'Brian!  Wilson!  Oy, Captain Toby, where are you?"  

He hadn't even made it all the way up the steps before he was cracked on the head with the blunt end of a sword, and he knew no more. 

*           *           *

The first morning after his departure, realizing how far away he was to be, Buttercup promptly fell into a slump and refused to leave her room.  After all, the love of her life had fled, life had no meaning, how could she face the future, et cetera, et cetera.  But after about three seconds of that she realized that he was out in the World now, getting closer to London every minute.  Would he want her moping like this?  Of course not.  He would want her happy, and happy she would be, because every moment he was away meant it was one more moment closer to the time they'd be together.  So she passed the time primping—she'd never been a tidy girl, and bathing, brushing her hair, and all that seemed just the mindless busywork that would make the days pass quicker.  

Her hair was the color of deep chocolate, the kind that makes the roof of your mouth tingle, and it had never been cut, so a thousand strokes took time, but all the better, for it ate away the minutes, and besides, wouldn't he be surprised at how shiny it was when she stepped off the boat in America.  Her skin was the color of wintry cream, and she scrubbed every inch of it past glistening, which wasn't much fun (and a bit painful, really), but wouldn't he be shocked when she stepped off the boat in America.  The time that wasn't spent on chores or primping was spent reading and learning all she could, which was so much more fun than the primping was, and she was excited, for wouldn't he be amazed at how clever she was when she stepped off the boat in America.  She'd always been an apt student and had a passion for learning, but horseback riding had always held more allure for her than sitting in her father's worn leather chair with a book.  But as she devoured books, she devoured minutes, and wouldn't he be proud of her when she stepped off the boat in America, clean, sparkling, and smart as a whip.  

Her potential was quickly becoming realized.  In just two weeks time, she had jumped from twentieth to fifteenth, an unheard of leap in such short amount of time.  Just a week after that, she was already ninth and moving.  She was nowhere near the most beautiful woman in the world yet, but the transformation was unbelievable.   Just reading his last letter nudged her up to eighth, for it was that which was doing it for her more than all else—her love for him wouldn't stop growing, and she dazzled people.  Even the village girls would smile at her and nod, and some of them would even ask how he was faring, which was usually a mistake unless they had a lot of spare time, for when someone asked how he was, she told them.  "He's supreme, as usual—he's the Chess Champion, did you know?  Yes, he's even beat the captain, he's quite clever at it…He's learning so much, being away and all, but do you suppose that the separation is good for us?  I've read that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but bother, can it be _too_ fond, do you think?  I've been reading these wonderful old books of sonnets, and maybe I'll even pen one myself.  Think he'd like it?  Oh, he'd think it was silly, I'm sure, but perhaps silliness is just what he needs right now…" She could go on for hours.  Sometimes it got a little tough for listeners to maintain the strictest of attention, but they did their best, since her love was so obviously pure, unadulterated, and genuine.

Which is why news of his death hit her the way it did.

She came home from delivering the milk one day five weeks after his departure and her parents were ashen.  "Off the Carolina coast," her father whispered.

"Without warning.  At night," her mother added.

Buttercup sat down.

"Pirates," said her father.

Silence.

"Well.  Out with it.  What happened to him?"  Buttercup demanded.

More silence.

"It was Roberts," said her father.  "The Dread Pirate Roberts."

"Oh," she said.  "The one who never leaves survivors."

"Yes."

Silence.  Buttercup took a deep breath.

"Was he stabbed?  Did he drown?  I wonder if he was asleep, if he died in bed—I do hope he was warm.  He told me once that it got dreadfully cold in his cabin.  Perhaps they whipped him dead?  I'm being silly, forgive me."  She was speaking very fast.  "As if the way they got him mattered.  Excuse me, I have to vomit."

She went to her room and stayed there many days.  She neither ate nor slept and cried just a little.

When at last she came out, her eyes were dry.  She had never looked as well, actually.  She had entered the room an impossibly lovely girl.  The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, and an ocean sadder.  She was a thing of glass—a distant beauty, hollow inside, with eyes that could tell no more of her thoughts than a tree could of a summer's day.

She was eighteen.  She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years and she didn't seem to care at all.

"You're all right?" her mother asked, offering her a mug of tea.  

Buttercup nodded, took the tea.  "Fine," she said.  She sipped the mug.  There was a very long pause.  "But I will never love again."

She never did. 


	5. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's. Yup.  
  
Much thanks to Itsu, Wonder Beta Extraordinaire. *schnugs her into oblivion* And to the Good Ship for keeping me wacky. And to everyone who's read and reviewed, because it makes me feel so squishy to think of people reading this. Le sigh. :) Without further ado (well.maybe a little ado), Chapter Five!  
  
* * *  
  
While Ron Weasley had never actually taken a visit to a Muggle zoo, he'd often wondered what one would be like-he'd heard about them, of course, through his father's fascination with everything Muggle, and after hearing about how Harry had set that snake on his cousin Dudley the summer before their first year, he'd wondered about it even more. During his childhood at the Burrow, his brothers and sisters had always kept pets; chickens and pigs were common, they'd had a horse for several years, and he and Ginny had kept a puffskein once, before the unfortunate Quidditch incident when Fred had used it for a bludger. But Ron had always been amazed that Muggles could manage to keep powerful beasts such as lions and tigers and the like locked up; he had always been stuck between thinking that it was amazing and thinking that it was horrible.  
  
As Ron looked out through the bars of his cage, he decided that being ogled, fed scraps, and provoked without reason and without the ability to retaliate was resoundingly horrible.  
  
When Ron initially regained consciousness after his run-in with the blunt end of a sword, he had a lot to accept in a very little amount of time. The first thing he was confronted with was most devastating: his crew, the men he had been traveling with were gone. The Queen's Pride had been sacked and looted by the infamous Dread Pirate Roberts' ship Revenge.  
  
That man in black. Roberts. He wasn't that impressive of a figure, really. He had the paunch of a middle aged man, and his mask didn't seem to fit as nicely as the man would have liked, as he fiddled with it quite often.  
  
It didn't take long for Roberts to take a liking to Ron.  
  
"Grab him," the man in black said with a bored flick of the wrist.  
  
Two pirates, each twice Ron's size, came at his cage. He put up a brave fight, but a couple of swift punches to his gut managed to calm him. The men dragged him to see the not-so-imposing man in black.  
  
Roberts drew his wand. Ron couldn't help himself. "Yo-you have a wand!"  
  
He had thrown the man in black off his game. "Uh.yes, I do. What did you expect, an anvil?" His two goons laughed. "But-how can you." In a moment, it was all clear to Ron. This is my subconscious-this may be a charmed sleep, but it's still my brain filling in all the parts. Of course they're all wizards! Ron furrowed his brow. But why didn't Herm-Buttercup's family have wands or potions or anything-oh! Ron, had he been in a less precarious position, would have laughed at his own stupidity. In this weirdo parallel dimension dream sequence thing, everyone still matches up! Hermione.he couldn't help but blush-what would Hermione think of this whole thing? He could just imagine the look on her face when she heard that he, Ron "You ARE a girl!" Weasley was playing the romantic hero. She'd die. Hermione is Buttercup.and her parents wouldn't have wands on their farm, would they? They're Muggles! It makes sense, now. But I haven't a wand.and that's.not.good.  
  
The man in black looked at him. "You should make your peace with whoever you think is up there," he said, gesturing with his wand to the ceiling of the small cabin. The walls were wood paneled and smelled of cedar.  
  
Ron felt a twinge of anger but suppressed it. "Please-don't kill me." The words themselves almost killed him as they struggled out of his proud mouth, but they had to be said. He didn't beg, he didn't plead-he merely looked into the eyes of a man capable and willing to kill him, and politely asked him not to, in quite the same manner as he might have said, "Please- pass the custard."  
  
Roberts stopped. "What?"  
  
Ron continued staring into his eyes. "I asked you not to kill me. Please." The goons were looking quite confused at this point.  
  
Roberts lowered his wand. He seemed intrigued. "Why should I make an exception of you?"  
  
Ron spoke before he knew it. "I think I love a girl," he said, as he flushed. He could feel his cheeks on fire, even as his eyes watered, preparing to blink for a last time.  
  
The pirate laughed. "Yes, I believe the line is 'I have a wife and eight children'. I'm sorry, but I am not swayed by such clichés." He raised his wand again.  
  
"No! I do love a girl. The most wonderful girl on the planet, actually." Ron couldn't believe he was still alive.  
  
The man in black laughed again. "I doubt that she is as wonderful as you imagine, my friend."  
  
"But she is. She's the smartest witch I've ever met, and if I lived a million years, I doubt I'd ever meet one so clever. The way her brain works is amazing.she always seems to know what I'm going to say a second before I say it, and even when I'm being a certifiable prat, she understands me." Ron paused, and allowed himself a chuckle. He supposed he would die in a couple minutes, but in that instant, his thoughts on Hermione, Buttercup, it didn't matter what she was called, he was glad. "Well, most of the time she understands me. And she's brave-Lord, she's brave. She's survived things and done things that wizards three times her age couldn't handle. Things she's done and said.sometimes I think she's even braver than Harry. And she's funny-she always laughs at her own jokes, but it's all right, because most of the time, they're quite clever. And she's pretty. Yeah, she's pretty.she's got this hair that's always all over the place, you know? I poke fun at her about it, say that it's attacking her head, but I just like looking at it sometimes, when she's reading one of her books and not paying attention to me. It's wild and a dark brown color, like coffee with a bit of cream in it-it's sort of long, but all bouncy and curly and frizzy, like she just came out of the rain. And her eyes are always so big and brown.so full of caring, all the time, and when they well up with tears, I just." Ron stopped. "But yes, that's why I don't want to die. I'd really like to see her again."  
  
The Dread Pirate Roberts looked at the slender redhead on his knees before him. He looked interested. "Brown eyes, eh?" he said. Ron nodded with the ghost of a grin on his face. The pirate sighed deeply.  
  
"I'll tell you-wait, what did you say your name was?"  
  
"Ro-er, Westley, sir."  
  
"I'll tell you, Westley, I feel genuinely sorry about this, but can you see it from my perspective a moment?"  
  
Ron thought for a second. "Um, not really."  
  
"If I make an exception in your case, then the news will get out that the Dread Pirate Roberts has gone soft." Roberts put his wand back in his pants and began to pace the room. He seemed sincerely disturbed by the happenings in his cabin that night. "They'll stop fearing me if they think I've gone soft, and piracy, you know, becomes nothing but tedious work, work, work, all the time. Pillaging and looting, looting and pillaging-I'd never get any painting done, honestly. And I'm far too old for such a life. I hope you can understand."  
  
Ron looked at the man. "But.but, I won't tell anyone! Really, not even my girl. I swear it."  
  
Roberts sighed heavily. "That's not good enough."  
  
"But.what if I stay on the Revenge with you? I can be your-whatitcalled, your guy? The guy who does stuff for you?" Roberts raised his eyebrows. Ron quickly went on. "No no no, your.your valet! I can be your personal valet and work for you until I can earn enough to get to America and pick up my girl. And if I ever once complain or anger you in any way, you can Avada my arse off the planet. How does that sound?" Ron looked pleased with himself.  
  
The man in black paused a moment. "Get below," he said. "Go get some sleep, I'll think about it. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."  
  
Every night ended that way for a year; each day, Ron roamed the Revenge, learning all he could and taking in all he was able to-he decided that he could learn what he could about piracy in the time he had left, as it helped him to put thoughts of his coming slaughter out of his mind. He helped the cook and learned how to filet the perfect fish; he learned to clean the hold and kept things tidy and rat-free; generally, he did whatever was asked of him, hoping always that his pleasant disposition, quick hands and ready mind might be favorably noted by the Dread Pirate Roberts.  
  
Every night, as moonlight peeked through the porthole in Ron's cabin, Roberts lumbered down the steps and tapped on his bunk with his wand. "Good work today, Westley. Sleep well, I'll probably kill you in the morning." Ron only took the threat seriously for the first eight months, for after that, the two were less valet and master and more like student and teacher, but more importantly, comrades.  
  
At the end of that first year, Roberts came to Ron's cabin with a proposition.  
  
"Enough of this valet business, Westley-from this time on, you are to be my second-in-command."  
  
Ron's jaw dropped. "Me, sir? A pirate?"  
  
Roberts looked pleased. "You'll make a fine pirate. Just get some leather incorporated into your wardrobe and you'll cut a fine figure. Piracy is a very respectable profession these days."  
  
Ron shook his head. "Thanks, sir, but I don't want to be a pirate. I just want to-"  
  
"Go back to your girl, I know, I know; but think of how much better would it be to return after a good year or three of piracy. You'll be rich and powerful, and then back to her you'll go."  
  
Ron scratched his head. "But your men have been with you for a long time, right? And they're not rich."  
  
"Don't sass me, boy, I could still kill you," he said with a teasing smile. "None of my men are captain. Westley, I'm going to be retiring soon, and when I do, the Revenge will be yours."  
  
Naturally, Ron couldn't refuse. Roberts allowed Ron to assist him in the next few captures to get a feel for it and see how much he liked it. As it turned out, Ron had quite the knack for piracy. Such a knack, that Roberts came to him one April morning, "Westley, the next ship is yours; let's see you put your money where your bragging mouth is, eh?" Ron was ready. At least, he'd thought he was ready.  
  
That next day, with Ron at the head of the Revenge, they spotted a gorgeous Spanish ship, all loaded with booty for Madrid. Ron steered the Revenge up close to the craft, whose sailors were in a panic. "Who is it?" their captain cried in fear.  
  
"The Dread Pirate Westley! Hand over your money and valuables and stuff!" Ron yelled back.  
  
"Never heard of you!" the Spanish captain replied as he and his crew opened fire-a barrage of hexes and curses flew towards the Revenge.  
  
Complete disaster. After narrowly escaping being hexed into oblivion, Ron returned to Roberts, ashamed. "I'm a failure as a pirate," he said gloomily, fingering his hat.  
  
"Buck up, son," Roberts said. "What I am about to tell you I have never told anyone before, and I trust that you will guard it closely." Ron looked at the man curiously and nodded.  
  
"I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts," he said. "My name is Ryan. I inherited this ship from the previous Dread Pirate Roberts just as you will inherit it from me. The man I inherited from was not Roberts, either-his name was." The older man sucked on a knuckle. "Cucumber? Cumberland? Something like that. Anyway, the real, original Dread Pirate Roberts has been retired for fifteen years now and has been living like a king on an island off the coast of Florida."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's really quite simple," the man called Ryan explained. "After several years, the original Roberts was so rich he wanted to retire. Clooney was his friend and first mate, so he gave the ship to Clooney, who had an identical experience to yours: the first ship he attempted to board nearly cursed him out of the water. So Roberts, realizing that it was the name that inspired fear and bred success, sailed the Revenge to port, changed crews, and Clooney went about saying that he was the Dread Pirate Roberts, and with a new crew, who was there to dispute him? A brilliant plan, I'd say. So, these last fifteen years, the name of Roberts has been passed down from pirate to pirate, and today, I, Felix Raymond Ryan of Boodle, Liverpool, now name thee, Westley, the Dread Pirate Roberts." He then handed Ron an insignia ring, with a golden flourish of an "R" standing proudly in a green stone.  
  
The years passed quickly, as they are known to, and it was four years before the lanky but imposing, redheaded Dread Pirate Roberts heard any whisperings of the forgotten farm boy Westley's homeland.  
  
Apparently, the prince had selected a bride.  
  
* * *  
  
The Prince loved to hunt. In fact, it was his first love. He made sure that no thing would come between himself and his killing-not eating, not sleeping, not even his vanity, which, it could be observed, was his second love.  
  
Both of his loves were quite justified; he was an outstanding hunter and outstandingly handsome man-one could even say he was beautiful. His hair was a silver color of blond, and he kept it long, trailing past his collarbone, and always perfectly coifed. His eyes were slate gray and as chilly as the man hidden beneath the surface and never gave any indication of what he was thinking-a valuable thing in a huntsman and political figure. His face was pale and flawless, like porcelain, and his chin came to a point that gave him a very misleading, very delicate look.  
  
At first, he traveled the world to sate his hunger for opposition, and the people of his country worried for him. There always had to be a male heir to the throne, and as long as his feeble father, the king, was alive, there was no problem with his travels. But someday soon, his father would die and then Prince Humperdinck would have to be the king and select a queen to supply an heir for the day of his own death. But, along with being shrewd and handsome, the Prince was very apt at planning.  
  
So, to avoid the eventuality of him becoming king and his sport being ruined, the Prince built the Zoo of Death. He designed it himself with his close friend Count Rugen's help, and he sent his minions the world over to stock it for him. It was always kept brimming with nasty things that flew, slithered, crawled and hopped. The only people that knew of it were the Prince, the Count, and the albino keeper, who made sure that the beasts were properly fed and never fell ill-if there was one thing the Prince hated, it was weakness.  
  
The Zoo was underground. The Prince picked the spot himself, in the quietest and most remote corner of the castle grounds. He decreed there were to be five levels, all with the specific needs for his individual enemies. On the first level, he put enemies of elusiveness and speed, like demiguises, erklings, and kappa. On the second level belonged enemies of great strength, like graphorns, erumpents, occamies, and re'ems. The third level was home to poisoners: basilisks, doxies, and lethifolds. The fourth floor was reserved for the most dangerous and most legendary creatures: the quintapeds, the manticores, and even a chimaera.  
  
The fifth floor was empty.  
  
Prince Humperdinck constructed it in hopes of someday finding something as worth, dangerous, fierce and powerful as himself.  
  
Most unlikely. Still, being the eternal optimist, he kept the great cage in the fifth level always ready.  
  
One particularly dank day in the Zoo, while the Prince was hunting an erkling, the business of the King's health made its ultimate intrusion. From above the pit in which he stalked his pray, Count Rugen's voice interrupted. "There is news," the Count said.  
  
The Prince sighed. "Can it not wait?"  
  
"I'm sorry sir, but it cannot."  
  
The Prince sighed again, much deeper this time, and threw a quick spell at the erkling, which fell down dead in an instant.  
  
"Now, what is it?" he replied, stepping over the dead beast and beginning to climb the ladder.  
  
"Your father has had his annual physical," said the Count. "I have the report."  
  
"And?" the Prince replied icily.  
  
"He's dying."  
  
The Prince threw his gloves to the floor. "Oh, bother, now I shall have to be married."  
  
* * *  
  
It was dawn when the two horsemen reined in at the hilltop. Count Rugen rode a splendid black horse, large, perfect, and powerful, but the Prince had opted for a sleeker, silvery white to match his white robes.  
  
"And you're sure she's beautiful? I want a woman who, when my people look at her, they think, 'Wow, that Prince has to be a great man to marry such a beautiful woman'."  
  
"She was something of a mess when I saw her," the Count admitted. "But the potential was astonishing."  
  
"A milkmaid." The words tasted bitter. "Perhaps I'd better not-I might be laughed at."  
  
"That is true. We can ride back to the castle if you'd like."  
  
Humperdinck thought a moment. "No, we've come this far. We might as we-" His voice gave out. "Yes. I'll take her," he squeaked when he saw the girl riding slowly below them. "I will speak to her."  
  
He urged his white horse to meet her. Buttercup had never seen such a horse or a rider.  
  
"I am your Prince and you will marry me," Humperdinck said.  
  
Buttercup looked at him. "Are you quite mad?" The Prince merely looked at her. She cleared her voice. "I refuse, of course."  
  
"I am your Prince and you may not refuse."  
  
"I just did, and I shall again. I won't marry you."  
  
"Refusal means death."  
  
"Then by all means, your highness, kill me."  
  
The Prince dismounted his horse and walked over to the lovely girl atop her chestnut mare. "I am your Prince and I am not that bad. How can you wish for death instead of marry me?"  
  
"Because," she said. "marriage involves love, and that would be one of the few pastimes at which I do not excel. I tried once, and it went badly. I must never love another."  
  
"Love?" said Prince Humperdinck. "I said nothing of love. I just need a queen who will give me a male heir when my father dies. So, you can either marry me and be the richest, most powerful woman in a thousand miles (not to mention one-half of the best-looking couple in a century) and provide me with a son, or you can die in a very painful manner in the very near future. Decide now."  
  
"I'll never love you, you know. And your hair is doing an odd flippy thing. Does it do that often?"  
  
"I wouldn't want it any other way." Buttercup could decide if he meant the loveless marriage or the flippy hair thing. She supposed it didn't manner.  
  
"Then by all means, let us marry." 


	6. Chapter Six

Hey everyone. Sorry it's taken so long for an update. It's terrible, this "graduating from high school business". This chapter is unbetaed, so….uh, we'll see how that goes. Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed—those words mean a lot. So much so, that a second ago, I got a review that said "You haven't updated in six months!" Hm. Hadn't thought of it like that. So, here it is, chapter six! I'd love to hear what you think of it. :)

*           *           *

The city was filled as never before, and everyone from far and wide had come to hear the introduction of Prince Humperdinck's bride-to-be, Princess Buttercup of Hammersmith.  No one had seen or heard of her before, and there were many rumors that she wasn't a true princess at all, but the masses were fickle and loved a pretty face.  

By noontime, the Prince appeared at the balcony of his father's castle and raised his arms.  The crowd, whose size was threatening to overthrow the square, slowly quieted.  The Prince was widely known for his beauty and malice.  Still, against the pale blue of the sky, the Prince, dressed completely in ivory with hair as pale as silver, looked impressive and commanded their attention.  

Humperdinck lazily raised his arms to the people.  "My people, my beloveds, from whom we draw our strength, today is a day of greeting."  He rushed through the words in such a manner that the crowd knew surely that they were most certainly not his beloveds nor a group he particularly felt like greeting.  "As you have heard, my father's health is not what it once was.  He is, then, very old, so what can you expect."  The Prince shrugged.  There were, in fact, rumors that the king was already dead, that he had been dead for quite some time, that he was fine, and that he was actually a resurrected zombie that had been living in the Bahamas for quite some time.  The masses enjoyed a good story as much as a pretty face. "As you also know, our great land needs a male heir."  The crowd began to stir.

"In three months, our country celebrates its five hundredth anniversary.  To celebrate that celebration, I shall, on that sundown, take for my wife the Princess Buttercup of Hammersmith.  You do not know her yet, but you will know and love her now," and he made a grand gesture and the balcony doors opened and Buttercup moved out beside him on the balcony.

The crowd grew silent with a sharp intake of breath.

The twenty-one-year-old Princess was a far cry from the eighteen-year-old mourner.  Her hair, which was worked on daily by a band of hairdressers, was curling and luscious, and the same color as the healthiest tree bark.  Her skin was pale, still like wintry cream, and scrubbed to brilliance.  Her eyes also shined with a brilliance that the girl of five years ago hadn't dreamed of—she was a woman now, full with the knowledge of a universe of libraries and a world of sorrows.  

Prince Humperdinck took her hand and held it high and the crowd cheered loudly.  "That's enough, musn't risk overexposure—next thing you know you'll be getting freckles over those pretty cheeks of yours," the Prince as he started back toward the castle, and Buttercup thought briefly how nice freckles were.

"No, I would like to go down there," she said, taking her hand back.

"With the commoners?  We do not do that unless it is completely and in all other ways unavoidable," he said, looking at her as if she were dense.  His lazy gray eyes regarded the crowds coldly as he blocked her path.

"_I_ do that.  And I shall.  Let me pass."  He did.

She left the balcony and reappeared a moment later on the great steps of the castle and walked open-armed down into the crowd.   

The people parted as she walked.  She crossed and recrossed the Great Square, and always ahead of her, the people parted to let her pass.  Buttercup continued, moving slowly and feeling more than a little ridiculous.  

Most of the people there would never forget that day.  None of them, of course, had ever been so close to such beauty before, and the great majority adored her instantly.  There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting she was pleasing enough, were withholding judgment as to her quality as a quern.  And, naturally, there were some more who were frankly jealous.  Very few hated her.

And only one of them was planning to murder her.

Buttercup, in her embarrassment, knew none of this.  She was smiling, and when people wanted to touch her gown, well, she let them, and when they wanted to touch her hair, she let them do that, too. She turned down a couple of pervy old men who wanted to hold her hand, but made sure to smile while declining.  She'd studied hard the nature of royalty and wanted very much to be a good Princess for her people, so she kept her posture erect and her smile gentle, and that her death was so close would have only have made her laugh, had someone told her.  

But…

…in the farthest corner of the Great Square—

…in the highest building in the country—

…deep in the deepest shadow—

The man in black stood waiting.  His pants were black leather and his shirt was made of the lightest Peruvian black cotton.  His mask was black, blacker than the raven.  But blackest of all was the anger and hate within his flat, dull blue eyes, flashing and cruel and deadly.

*           *           *

Buttercup was drained after her meeting with her country, and she decided that she needed a rest, so toward midafternoon, she changed into her riding clothes, grabbed a book ("I Married an Arrogant Arse—Confessions of Cinder Girl", by Cinderella Martinelli—admittedly not the most cerebral book in her collection, but a necessary evil) and went to fetch her horse.  This was the one aspect of her life that had not changed over the years.  She still loved to ride and every afternoon, she rode alone for several hours in the wild land beyond the castle, often bringing a book to accompany her under a tree while she munched on apples that she nicked from the kitchens.

She did her best thinking then.  Her thinking didn't always span the universe, or argued philosophy, or even attempted to chip away at the iron walls she'd erected around her heart those five years ago, but as long as she kept them to herself, what was the harm?

As she rode through the woods and streams and heather, her thoughts swirled.  The walk through the crowds had moved her and in a very strange way.  She knew that she was a Princess, and that most likely, would someday be a Queen, but today, she _knew_ it.  

And I don't like Humperdinck, she thought.  I don't hate him, and I admit, there _is_ something terribly attractive about him, but I can't tolerate a man who spends more time on his hair than I.  And I never _see_ him; he's always off somewhere or playing in his Zoo of Death—not much of a fiancé-bonding activity _there_.

To Buttercup's way of thinking, there were two main problems: (1) was it wrong to marry without like (as love was most certainly out of the question) and (2) if it was too late to do anything about it.

Her answers, after some deliberation, were: (1) not terribly and (2) yes, you ninny.

She sighed and rode on to her favorite tree, thinking about a certain redheaded farm boy.  No use dwelling on the past, she thought as she blinked away a sudden stinging in her eye.  Learn to be satisfied with what you have.  As she pictured the sleek, handsome, and arrogant Prince Humperdinck and how deficient he was in comparison to the boy who lived only in her memory, she knew in her heart that no amount of time would bring satisfaction.

*           *           *

Dusk was closing in on her as she turned the page, enthralled.  She was about an hour from the castle and her day was nearly done.  She brushed off her dress and began to mount her horse, but stopped, for standing in the dimness was the strangest trio she'd ever seen.

The man in front was dark, with a sallow face and hooked nose.  He was tall, and his hair looked grimy.  He moved with grace and stood in a way that commanded respect and silence.  The other two men hung back and seemed to regard the first man with distaste.  The second man was thin, of medium height, and very interesting to look at.  He had hair that looked very overdue for a trim and eyes that peeked out behind round-rimmed glasses sparkled like emeralds.  A very thin, jagged scar split the smooth paleness of his forehead, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking nervously at the situation.  The third man was bearded and grizzly, and was easily the biggest human being she'd ever seen.  He had kind black eyes and also seemed to survey the situation with a hint of uneasiness.  

"A word, miss?"  The sallow man raised his arms.  His smile looked fake and unnatural and he lost it quickly.

Buttercup stopped.  "Of course."

"We are but poor circus performers," he explained.  "It is dark—"

"A keen observation," she interrupted.  It was getting late and she was irritable.  

The man glared.  "—and we are lost.  We were told there is a village nearby that might enjoy our skills."

"You were misinformed," she told him.  "There is no one, not for many miles."

"Then there will be no one to hear you scream," he said silkily as he jumped toward her.  The last thing she heard was a shout of protest from the man with the scar, and she knew nothing—his hands expertly touched places on her neck, and unconsciousness came.

*           *           *

She awoke to the lapping of water.

She was wrapped in a blanket and the giant man was putting her in the bottom of a boat.  She was about to call out, but thought it better to listen, though she didn't like what she heard.

"You're not really going to…kill her, are you Vizzini?  I don't think it's right."  The man with the scar nervously fingered his wand.  

"The less you think, Inigo, the happier I'll be," was the terse reply from the hook-nosed man.

There was a sound of ripping cloth.  "What's that then?"  The large man asked, gently moving her hair away from her face.  

"The same as I attached to her saddle," the hook-nosed man replied.  "Fabric from the uniform of an officer of Guilder." 

"I still think—" The man with the wand, Inigo, began.

"She must be found dead on the Guider frontier.  It is the job we've been asked to do, and we shall do it to the best of your abilities, as limited as they are.  Is that clear enough for you?"

The scarred man stood up.  "You didn't tell us that.  I refuse to be apart of this."

"The, by all means, jump overboard.  The sharks would be more than willing to accommodate the incompetence that I shall not," the hook-nosed man idly gestured to the quickly moving water beneath the boat.

"But the people won't take death well—she's become beloved."  The man with the scar looked helplessly at Buttercup.

"There will be a war.  We've been paid to start it."

"I won't be apart of this," The man with the scar said firmly.

"I'm with 'im," said the Giant.  "'e's right—we can start a war another way, right?  Not that I much fancy doin' tha' to begin with…"

"God kills girls all the time and it doesn't worry him—don't let it worry you."

Buttercup passed out again and didn't hear the response.

She didn't know how long she was out, but she was still in the boat when she blinked, the blanket shielding her.  And without daring to think, she threw the blanket aside and dove deep into the water.  

She stayed under as long as she dared and then surfaced to swim across the moonless water with every ounce of strength she had.  She heard cries in the darkness behind her.

"Get her!  Get her!" the hook-nosed man cried.

"I only dog paddle," said the large man with an accompanying pantomime that would have been hilarious in other circumstances.

Inigo jumped to the side of the ship.  "I'll get her."

"No!"  The Giant gripped the back of Inigo's tunic and pulled him to the ground.  "Don' be an idiot, ye can' swim any better than I can."

Buttercup continued to swim.  Her arms ached and her heart pounded.

"I can hear her kicking.  Veer left," the hook-nosed man ordered.

Buttercup swam quietly, trying to make no noise.  

"The sharks can smell you, Princess,"  the hook-nosed man said smoothly.  "They can feel a warm body in the water.  There is no controlling their wildness.  Swim back to the boat and we'll pull you back.  I can make your death quick and easy.  I'm sure you'll get no such guarantee from the sharks."

Buttercup hesitated, silently treading water.  She felt a swish of water close to her, but she was sure it was just her imagination.

"Come back now.  There won't be another warning."

The fish sounds were closer now.

I'm not making a peep, Buttercup decided, and she began to swim again.

There was a pause, a silence full with fear.

Then sharks went mad… All around her, Buttercup could hear them screaming and thrashing their mighty tails.  Buttercup clamped her eyes tight, not wanting to see the dark water turn a horrible shade of red…

Fortunately for all concerned (save the sharks), it was around this time that the moon came out.

"There she is!"

And the man with the scar turned the boat quickly and the boat drew close and the huge man reached out an arm and she was back, safe in the boat with her murderers while around them the sharks bumped each other in wild frustration.

With his wand, the man with the scar quickly conjured a bluebell flame and put it in front of her.  "Keep warm," he told her with a cautious smile.  

"Don't catch cold," the large man said, wrapping Buttercup in a cloak.  
  


"Well, it doesn't matter much, seeing as you're killing me, now, does it?" she said tersely, snatching the blanket.  

The scarred man's eyes clouded over as he threw a look his hook-nosed counterpart.  "Fezzik, come here," he said, and the Giant skulked over, looking sad.  the hook-nosed man didn't notice his crew's displeasure.  "Look.  The Cliffs of Insanity are there in the distance.  You," he said with a sneer at Inigo.  "Sail straight for the steepest part."

Rising straight and tall from the water, the gray rock of the Cliffs cut into the starry sky.  The Cliffs were the midway between Florin and Guilder and provided the quickest route between the two countries, but no one ever used them.  

"I _was_ sailing for the steepest part.  Pillock."  The man with the scar muttered under his breath.  

Buttercup couldn't imagine what they were thinking—they couldn't possibly expect to _climb_ the Cliffs, could they?  

The man with the scar furred his eyebrows and called to the hook-nosed man.  "Are you sure that no one could be following us?"

He shook his head.  "Of course not.  That would be absolutely, totally, and, in all other ways, inconceivable.  Do continue what you were doing."  A pause.  "Why do you ask?"

The man with the scar smirked.  "It's just that when I happened to look back, there's something there."

Looking for the first time ruffled, the hook-nosed man dashed to the side of the boat.  

Something indeed was there.  Less than a mile behind them was another boat, small and black, with a giant sail that billowed black in the night, and a single man at the helm.  A man dressed all in black.

"Continue," the hook-nosed man said.  "Can you hear?  I said continue.  Pay no attention."

The three men bustled on the deck of the ship. The hook-nosed man snapped orders, the man with the scar swore under his breath, and the giant clapped him on his back in encouragement. But Buttercup could do nothing but watch the billowing sails of the trailing ship. 


	7. Chapter Seven

"This'un behind us, 'e's gainin'."  The Giant looked bemusedly at the black sails of the ship that was, unmistakably, sailing toward their own.  Buttercup was frightened of the strange men with her.  But somehow, the sight of the man in black, standing so tall on the deck of his black ship, frightened her more than she could explain.

"Inconcievable!  You!  Inigo!"  The hook-nosed man, now far past the boundaries of "ruffled" and bordering the realm of "utterly distressed".  "Mind that—_thing_" he gestured vaguely at the rigging.  And you!"  he hissed at the Giant.  "Stop staying that, he _is not gaining_!"

"'o course 'e's not," he said, throwing a grin at the quick-handed man with the scar.  "'e's jus' gettin' closer, ain't he?"  His partner chuckled. 

With a furious spew of cursing, the sallow-faced, hook-nosed man pulled out his wand and pointed it at the pair of men.  "I did not _hire_ the two of you for your entertainment value."

Buttercup ignored them.  The Cliffs of Insanity were very close now. She was vaguely aware of the hook-nosed man blustering around, and of the man with the scar maneuvering their craft onto the beach.  The breaking of the sea spray on the rocks was blinding, and as she shielded her eyes, she could barely make out the distant outline of the top of the Cliffs.  She shuffled off of the ship while the man with the scar held the ropes binding her hands, all the while staring at the horizon where the rock of the cliffs met the bleary sky. 

Wand still drawn, the hook-nosed man pointed it high and said, "_Rassio__ cordera_!"  And from the end of his wand flew a spiraling rope, which traveled close up the side of the Cliffs.

"Fast now," he ordered, tugging on the rope, which appeared to be tied to a rock or something far above them.  "If that man is following us…which is still, I say, completely unlikely, than we must make it up the Cliffs and sever the rope before he can climb after us."

Buttercup couldn't help but laugh.  "Up the Cliffs?  I knew you were mad, but I didn't know you were insane."

"Insane, m'lady?  Now, either you're quite daft or you're trying to make a clever pun, neither of which we have the time for now.  You shall ascend the Cliffs of Insanity and we shall do it _now_."  He pulled the ropes binding her hands from Inigo and she nearly fell.

"No.  There is _no sodding way_ you're going to make me climb those Cliffs, and I pray to _Merlin_ that you try.  Oh, if I had my wand, you—you…I can't think of a thing bad enough to curse you with, but oh, it would be simply_ wretched_."

The hook-nosed man laughed.  "I won't make you climb the Cliffs, mark me.  Inigo, take her."

The thin man with the scar lifted Buttercup and draped her body around the Giant's shoulders.  "Sorry," he whispered to her.  She sniffed indignantly and a wisp of hair flew up.  This was certainly a most unflattering position for an intellectual-woman-of-the-now-independent-princess to be in.

The man with the scar then tied himself to the Giant's waist.  But the hook-nosed man showed no signs of loading himself onto the ridiculous make-shift human elevator.  "I shall meet you at the top," he said shortly, and with that, and a loud "pop!", he was gone.

"Ruddy bastard, if only I could Apparate…" The man with the scar looked wistfully up at the top of the Cliffs.  "All right?" he asked Buttercup.

She looked up.  "Never better," she gulped.

"'old on, you two.  We're leavin'."

With that the Giant began to climb. 

Buttercup closed her eyes tight and clung to his neck.

Up he climbed, arm over arm, arm over arm, two hundred feet above the water, then three hundred feet above the water.  Buttercup couldn't help but be mildly impressed. 

The man with the scar spoke.  "You're doing wonderfully, Fezzik."

"Thanks—" he grunted, still climbing.  "It's 'most easy without tha' slimy git hissin' orders at me.  I might not be able to Apparate or nothin', but Merlin, I ain't hopeless."

The scarred man sighed.  "I know, Fezzik.  I know."

"Um, excuse me?  Gentlemen?"  Buttercup's small voice peaked through the veil of hair that draped over her face.  "Our friend in black seems to have reached the beach."

A hush fell over the trio.

"Just thought you should know."

It was true.  The man in black was closing in on the Cliffs. 

Six hundred feet now.  The arms continued their rapid ascent, pulling, over and over.  Six hundred and twenty.  Six fifty.  Seven hundred.

The man with the scar whistled.  "He's left his boat," he said, obviously impressed.  "He's jumped onto our rope.  He's…well, blimey!  He's starting up after us!"

"I can feel 'im!  'e's weighin' down th' rope!"

Buttercup opened one eye and used her pinky finger to pull over the veil of hair—the man in black was flying.  Already he had cut their lead by a hundred feet.  Maybe more.  "Uh, sorry, don't want to be a bother here, or give any cause for, uh, sweaty palms, but is there a chance we can go a bit faster?!"

"I'm carryin' three people, 'cludin' myself, 'ighness!  He's on'y got 'imself.  I'm goin' as fast as I'm likely t' go."

The man in black had gained another hundred feet.  Buttercup looked up.  Perhaps a hundred and fifty more feet to go and they would be safe.

Tied hand and foot, sick with fear, Buttercup wasn't sure what she wanted to happen.  She only knew that, given her wand and a few moments to look up a really disgusting curse, that the hook-nosed man would have it from her, and it would be _good_.

"He's over halfway!" the man with the scar said in awe.  Fly, Fezzik, just another fifty feet to go."

Forty feet.

The Giant pulled.

Twenty.

Ten.

It was over.  The Giant had done it.  Had he not been one of the men plotting to kill her, Buttercup would have kissed him right on his enormous lips.  She crawled quickly away from the edge of the Cliffs, but not before seeing that the man in black was no more than three hundred feet away. 

"It took you long enough," the hook-nosed man sneered as the Giant rolled onto the cliff, catching his breath. 

"Fat lot _you_ did to help!" said the man with the scar, tending to his friend. 

"I intend to help right now."  The hook-nosed man pointed his wand at the rope.  "_Severus__!_" 

"No!"  cried the scarred man. 

But the hook-nosed man had done it.  The rope seemed almost alive with how quickly it fled from the top of the cliff, and flew over the edge.

"Shame," gasped the Giant.  "Don' seem—right.  Such—a climber—deserves—better."

The man with the scar's harsh laugh punctuated the silence.  "He did it!"

The hook-nosed man glared at him.  "What did he do?"

"He released the rope in time!  See?"

The man in black was hanging in space, clinging to the sheer rock face, seven hundred feet above the water. 

The scarred man grinned at his sallow-faced counterpart.  "So, how's _that_ for inconceivable?"

The hook-nosed man looked hard at the man in black for a long time before reaching a conclusion.  "It is of no importance.  He will fall, he will die, he is no threat."

It was at that moment that the man in black started to climb.  Not quickly and not without great effort.  But there was no doubt that he was, indeed, rising.

"_Inconceivable!_" whispered the sallow-faced man. 

The thin man with the scar whirled on him.  "_Stop saying that word!  _It was inconceivable that anyone could follow us, but when we looked behind, there was the man in black.  It was inconceivable that anyone could sail as fast as we could sail, and yet he gained.  Now this too is inconceivable, but look—_look!_" and the man pointed down through the misty night.  "_See how he rises!"_

_"SILENCE!"_  The hook-nosed man's eyes glittered wildly as he whispered.  "I have the keenest mind that ever was.  So when I tell you something, _it is a fact_.  So kindly keep your bloody guesswork inside your leaking head, will you?  A logical explanation is that he is simply an ordinary sailor who dabbles a bit in mountain climbing and has the same general final destination as ourselves.  Still."  He looked around the area shrewdly, and finally turned to the man with the scar, who was staring at him in loathing.  "Inigo, you shall stay here.  If he falls, smashing.  If he doesn't—which would be utterly and in all other ways inconceivable—finish him with the wand.  You—" he pointed to the giant.  "You will carry her."  

The thin man glared, but said nothing. 

The man with the hook nose slinked away, and the giant hoisted the girl on his shoulders.  "G'bye, Inigo."  He looked quickly over the edge of the cliff and at the man in black.  "Be careful, y'hear me?  People wearin' masks ain't to be trusted.  Seems ter me they've summat to hide.  Take care."  And he was gone.

The scarred man wandered around the top of the cliff, his footsteps as undecided as his mind.  He was a good man; he didn't want to kill anyone.  He wouldn't.  To appease Vizzini, he would stun the man in black and send up a flare to attract the attention of the Prince, who was, undoubtedly, tracking his beloved.  Inigo was quite of the opinion that Prince Humperdinck was a complete arse, but didn't dare doubt his tracking abilities. 

Having a grip on a plan, he quickly jumped to his feet, his thin body ready for action.  Only, the man in black was still many feet away.  There was nothing to do but wait for him, and Inigo was a very impatient young man. 

He paced the cliff edge.  Fifty feet below him, the man in black still climbed.  Inigo began to idly use his wand to conjure faint wisps of smoke, hoping to amuse himself.  It didn't work. 

Forty-seven feet to go. 

Forty-six.

"All right, there?"  Inigo hollered when he could wait no more.

The man in black glanced up and grunted.

"I've been watching you."

The man in black nodded.

"Slow going, yeah?"

"Look, mate," the man in black finally said, "I'm a bit busy here trying not to plummet to my death.  Mind shutting up a bit?"

"Sorry," Inigo said.  A moment passed.  "Hey, d'you…well, can I help at all?"

The man in black snorted.  "Yeah, throw me a piece of rope or something.  Fat lot of good that'd do.  I know which side you're on."

"I could do that."

"Says the man waiting on the edge of a cliff to kill me."

"Hey," Inigo said, indignant.  "I'm not planning on killing you, mate."

"Ah, Merlin bless you and your moral fiber," the man in black wheezed, inching up the side of the cliff.  "Kidnapping is fine, but murder!  Perish the thought."

Inigo took the remaining rope from the boulder and dragged it to the side of the cliff.  "Would you rather climb the entire cliff with just those arms, or do you want to trust me?"

The man in black paused.  "Why should I?"

"I swear on the souls of my parents, you'll make it to the top alive."

Without hesitation, the man in black said, "Throw down the rope."

It took twenty minutes of hard climbing, even with the rope, and Inigo's help to overtake the edge of the cliffs, but the man in black finally made it to the top safely.  Panting, he bent over to catch his breath and went to draw his wand.  Inigo waved it down.

"Put that away.  We're not going to fight."

The man in black looked at him in the face for the first time and grinned broadly.  "I should've known it'd be you.  Cliffside moral fiber and criminal nobility has Harry Potter written all over it."  Inigo was puzzled, but assumed that the exertion was affecting the man's mind.

"So, who are you working for?" the man in black asked, settling himself down on a rock.

"Can't tell you that, mate.  He might be a certifiable arse, but he's protecting a good friend of mine at the moment." 

"Fair enough."  The man in black paused.  "So, what's your name supposed to be here?"

Inigo looked strangely at the man, but told him nonetheless.  "Inigo Montoya."  He paused and looked uncomfortable.  "Hey, I hate to ask, but…do you have six fingers on your right hand?"

The man in black stared at Inigo and held up his right hand.  Five fingers.  _Damn_.

"What's that about?"

Inigo sighed.  "My parents were murdered by a man with six fingers.  I was eight.  I saw it happen."  He hung his head for a moment.  "I vowed I would avenge my parents and find the six fingered man and do what I couldn't do when I was a boy.  I went away and studied dueling for many years, and now I'm searching for the six-fingered-man."  He shrugged.  "It's slow going.  I never really thought it would take this long."

"How long has it been?"

"Well, first I trained for six years.  Then I set out on my mission.  So, I'm going to say…"  He thought a moment.  "About five years.  And a few months."

The man in back gaped at him.  "And that's all you've done, search for your parents' murderer?"

Inigo shrugged.  "And I've picked up odd jobs for change.  You know, there's not a lot of money in the revenge business.  That's where I met up with Vizzini, and that's why I'm in this big kidnapping mess."  He sighed.  "Should've stayed in Italy."

The man in black stood up.  "Speaking of kidnapping, I really had better go after that princess."

"Why?  Do you know her?"

The man in black grinned and pulled off the black scarf covering his hair to wipe sweat from his brow.  His hair was a flaming red.  "She'd say no, but I happen to know better." 

"I'd like to help, if I can.  I feel terrible, I never should've gotten mixed up in this…"

"Thanks, but I think I have to do it alone.  Just…don't go for the prince.  Disappear for a while, then find your friend.  I'll make sure he isn't harmed."

"Thanks."  Inigo looked at the man in black, as he started to leave.  "Wait!  I never got your name!"

The man in black looked back and smiled, remembering a train compartment and the smell pumpkin pasties, several years and a whole different world away.  "Call me Ron, okay?  It's not quite right here, but it's who I am."  And with that, he turned and ran towards a rocky hillside.


End file.
